


Static

by Kemmasandi



Series: In Which Old Friends Get Up To Dodgy Tricks [3]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Fluff, Other, Spark Sex, Sticky Sex, tumblr-enabled
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-07 01:31:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kemmasandi/pseuds/Kemmasandi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's one set of circumstances under which Ratchet doesn't mind being backed into a corner at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Static

**Author's Note:**

> **Title:** Static  
>  **Rating:** NC-17  
>  **Universe:** TF:Prime  
>  **Characters:** Optimus Prime, Ratchet,  
>  **Pairings:** Optimus Prime/Ratchet  
>  **Warnings:** Sticky/sparkplay smut, porn without any semblance of plot whatsoever  
>  **Summary:** There’s one circumstance under which Ratchet doesn’t mind being backed into a corner at all  <3
> 
>  **Prompt:** _supermedichero247_ answered:If it’s not too much to ask, More OP and Ratchet?
> 
>  **Notes:** Hey people, public service announcement: OP/Ratchet is my fluff!OTP, and therefore any excuse to write it is a good one and it’s not too much to ask at all  <3333 In fact, if you ever feel like you’ve come up with a good prompt, drop it in my inbox any time and I’ll have a go at it :D 
> 
> The Optimus in my head decided his spike was being neglected, so have some top!OP for a change. Also – holy crap, spark stuff is fuuuuuuuuuuun >8D

***

Ratchet squeaked when Optimus picked him up, a sound he’d likely fiercely deny later on. The hydraulics in Optimus’ elbows threatened to do the same, Ratchet’s preternatural medic’s weight stressing the tired joints beyond what was probably advisable.

 _Just a moment,_ Optimus told his arms, leaning back a little to take Ratchet’s weight on his hips. Carefully he moved around the medbay bench towards a bare patch of wall – he’d almost swear Ratchet kept it there for this exact purpose.

“Do you honestly have nothing better to do?” Ratchet groused as Optimus settled him back against the wall.

“I don’t believe I do,” Optimus told him. “If we go by my own personal definition of ‘better’, I haven’t had anything better to do in quite a while.”

A look of strange gratification flashed across his CMO’s face before Ratchet replaced it with his ever-present scowl. “I highly doubt that,” he snorted, but obligingly leaned into Optimus’ shoulder as the last of the Primes carefully turned him, hooking Ratchet’s legs around his hips and stealing a quick kiss as the scowl faded. “I know exactly what you’re doing, just so you know.”

Ratchet’s problem was he thought too much, ceaselessly needing a plan to follow, a logical procession of stages weighing down his natural instincts. It made him a brilliant medic and scientist, but seldom allowed him to relax and make use of his gift of feeling, his empathy. The trick, therefore, was in keeping moving, keeping him from overthinking it, showing him a path when he found none.

Optimus had become quite good at that over the years.

“Of course you do,” he agreed, breaking the kiss only long enough to shift his servos’ grip on the backs of Ratchet’s thighs. His spark pulsed twice in rapid succession, and he let its vibrant exhilaration colour his EM field in deep red, stroking against the shortwave glitters of Ratchet’s own overtaxed field. “You, as usual, need a distraction from your work. I intend to give you one.”

“The children are still here, you know.” Ratchet shuttered his optics and hummed briefly as Optimus kissed along his chevron, mouthing the tip when he reached it before letting it slip from his lips. “I won’t be the one giving them the Cyberbiology lesson if they walk in on us.”

Optimus didn’t have the spark to hold back a rare, honest chuckle. “There is a simple solution to that.”

Ratchet gave him a sidelong look, optics narrowed. He must have been working even longer than Optimus had thought.

He took pity on the medic, planting a gentle kiss on his cheek just below the optic. “I locked the doors as I entered the room,” he explained. “Short of a catastrophic video-game-related accident, they won’t be needing opened for a while.”

He felt it as Ratchet’s last brittle strands of wariness snapped, the medic shaking his helm in resignation.

“Very well. I’m holding you solely responsible when something goes wrong.”

Optimus smiled down at him. “Your terms are acceptable. Shall we begin?”

“That is not the way you ask,” Ratchet muttered. He grabbed for Optimus’ shoulders, the fingers of one servo wrapping around a smokestack. He canted his hips upward with a pleasant frictive grind, and the click of his interface panel opening almost went unnoticed under Optimus’ pleased rumble.

Ratchet’s spike curved up between them, the tip bumping insistently against Optimus’ abdominal plating. Ordinarily he would have knelt and taken it into his hands or mouth, but today there was a different part of Ratchet he intended to pay attention to.

He propped his medic higher against the wall, offering stability with his shoulder, and slid his free hand into the space between their legs. Ratchet vented heavily, his arms wrapped around Optimus’ shoulders, servos clinging for dear life to his back. His hips jerked as Optimus’ questing digits found the entrance of his valve.

Softly, softly. Optimus swept the tips of his digits around the valve rim, his tactile sensors measuring with a flood of pleased relief the warm runnels of lubricant the touch smeared over his hands. Good – he’d had his doubts, but apparently Ratchet was as approving of this method as he was.

Ratchet sighed and pressed closer, harder against him. His valve mechanisms cycled down, clenching on nothing – perhaps it was time. Optimus kept a watchful optic on Ratchet’s face as he worked a single digit into the medic, calipers sliding open eagerly for him.

Ratchet’s optics went wide, his mouth gaping open in a silent gasp. His gaze snapped to Optimus, and his fans kicked up a notch, greedily sucking in cooler air.

He could be skittish about being penetrated – more out of a simple gut-deep preference than any experiential cause. Optimus would never begrudge him that, never hold it against him and to be honest he found Ratchet’s proclivity for being the penetrative partner perfectly matched his own well-hidden inclination towards his valve. The times when they would reverse their roles, however, were worthy of being treasured simply for the trust Ratchet showed him in allowing them.

Ratchet gave a little squirm, the shutters in his optics flickering as he rocked himself further onto Optimus’ digit. “More,” he snarled, his servos digging under Optimus’ upper dorsal plating to find sensitive wire bundles, his voice demanding pleasure. “I won’t break, fraggit!”

Optimus pressed closer, the width of his hips forcing Ratchet’s legs wider. Ratchet hissed out a stuttered exvent as the second finger slipped into him, sliding easily through the hot mess of fluids dripping from him. Tiny bolts of building charge zapped from his internal nodes to the plating on Optimus’ digits, a warmth flooding through neural net as well as tactile gauges.

“Two, or three?” he asked. Their faces were so close their helms touched, his crest pressed against Ratchet’s chevron, their lips touching as small movements tipped them closer against each other.

Ratchet’s throat cabling worked for a moment before he answered, his voice caustic with impatient need. “Just get inside me!”

“As you wish.”

Optimus shifted, slipping his fingers out of the bewitching wet heat and lifting Ratchet higher. He found the command to unlock his interface panel, and executed it, his spike pressurising almost instantly. Ratchet hummed appreciatively as the head slid over his valve entrance, and Optimus had to forcibly override the automatic urge to angle _just so_ and sheathe himself inside Ratchet in one fell stroke.

Then, he wondered, why not? Ratchet had wanted it _quick_ …

It was a tempting thought, but concern overrode base desire. He rocked his hips backward, and hooked his servos under Ratchet’s thighs, lifting up so that the medic’s knees nearly touched his chassis – and the weight of his own frame forced him forward and down onto Optimus’ spike.

Ratchet moaned, slipping into binary halfway through. His optics blazed through slitted filters, and his valve pulsed and flexed around Optimus’ invading length, calipers gripping him tight. The stilted slide of metal near untouched was incredible, rougher, rawer somehow than Optimus was used to, the fierce desire spilling through his circuits and spark though something he’d long since learned to associate with Ratchet.

It was rooted in something past the physical, something Optimus Prime had had little experience with: love, private and personal. He wouldn’t have recognised it at all if it weren’t for the core of him which was still Orion Pax, young and emotive.

He ground his hips up against Ratchet’s, the mounting of his spike slickened with the lubricant dripping from Ratchet’s external components. Electricity leapt and crackled between them, inside and out. Circuits connected, his spike inside Ratchet lighting up with white-hot flow of energy. He pulled out a short way and thrust deep again, and Ratchet arched back against the wall, fingers squeezing dents into the plating on Optimus’ back.

“Ratchet,” Optimus gasped, leaning forward against him. Ratchet’s helm rose, the medic blindly seeking out Optimus’ mouth. They kissed, deep and too blissed to care that it was sloppy, Ratchet’s lips slipping off to the side, Optimus switching his intent to a nuzzle halfway through.

When Ratchet’s digits came to rest on the central seam of his chest plates, Optimus was ready for it. He opened without a second thought, setting a simple, gentle rhythm with his thrusts.

Then Ratchet’s hands were at his spark chamber, his very core, and he forgot how to think, how to do anything at all but feel. Proximity recorded the wall, Ratchet’s smaller frame crushed between it and his own frame, but his optics had gone, blown out under the surge of raw stellar sensation as Ratchet’s fingers wove through the fragmented outer layers of his spark, weaving plasma in a cat’s cradle of trust, desire, reciprocal love. His HUD flashed white and blanked, the strange not-physical but too _there_ to be emotional pulse of a building spark overload, looming like a thunderhead as the charge ramped up.

Ratchet played him like an expert. Fingers _danced_ inside him, tracking love through his soul. He tasted the sharp copper tang of ions in the air and roared his completion, moving through it, hips rocking up _hard_ into Ratchet, clutching the medic to his open chassis as his spark throbbed and exploded into a miniature supernova, flashing outwards, tendrils reaching for Ratchet’s own hidden spark. Ratchet came with him, hands locking up inside Optimus’ spark chamber, screaming, his valve clenching in rhythmic waves that milked Optimus’ spike of every spurt of transfluid it had to give.

Spent at last, Optimus managed to lower them to the floor before his legs gave out entirely. Ratchet straddled his thighs, strutlessly collapsed against his chassis. Optimus’ spike was still half inside him, but he didn’t seem at all in a hurry to let it slip out.

That was louder than he’d intended. At this perfect moment in time, however, Optimus decided he didn’t really care.

***


End file.
